Topic: Keep Your Enemy Closer

This Dark Second

Date: 2010-01-11 20:35 EST
It coursed through her head and crashed against her senses the closer she drew to its source.

Each bare footed step over the fallen leaves encrusted in sharp morning ice gave way to the advance as she pushed on through a wall of thick foilage that snaped and fell under foot, while some ever-green tendrils dusted in white snagged at her leather skirt.

Soon she found herself standing upon dirt road that had seen little traffic for what seemed like days.

Even the long steaks left behind by a horse and cart had started to grow its long trodden grass, even if it was somewhat hampered by the freezing lashings of a rogue current snaking its way through the centre of the forest.

She did not know where she was, or for that matter, truely cared how far she had trailed away from the relative warmth of her campfire. All she knew is that something strong in aura had passed on by here recently, and, through the red leather blindfold, her hidden gaze turned down wind, and followed the path deeper into nowhere...

Until the faint heartbeat of something had started to drum in her ear. And it was getting louder the quicker she walked.

Raithmoore

Date: 2010-01-11 20:48 EST
The something the witch felt was that of a man with a darkened heart and soul. His brown hair was matted with sweat and dirt to his head, blood and grime coated most of his form, for he'd been all but blindly stumbling through the wilds west of Rhy'Din on his way to the dark edifice of Raithmoore's tower. His dark shirt was torn in places where branches had snagged it or he'd fallen. His pants were stained with dirt, ripped at the knees from countless stumbles into ditches.

But his eyes were still very keen and intent on sighting the dark tower that loomed past the wilds. They were blue in hue but glazed over by a milky film of white, seeing but not seeing. Images flashed in his mind, images of Raithmoore, of the servants at his bidding, of the dark magic at work. The Necropolis called to him, even with his life still very much intact. It was a place the dead and soon-to-be flocked to, he was of the latter.

This Dark Second

Date: 2010-01-11 21:07 EST
Armoured arms, like silent weapons, hung stiff at her sides, beholding appendages like claws at their tips that ought to belong to creatures that hailed from the oddity of limbo or the burning sulfur-land of hell itself.

For such things to be attached to the shoulders of a human woman, some may like to think twice before getting too close to them.

She could smell him now - clear as the crisp clean air. Unfortunately, he stunk like a dead-man who had yet to be covered over by dirt, or devoured by wildlife. This puzzled her, and as she silently followed on, her lips came together for just the barest sounds of thoughtfulness to pass by those ruby red lips.

There was only one conclusion.

The snow about her melted away - merely sizzling away into nothing but steam as a roar of fire erupted across her skin, as if it were stamped as a living tattoo and not a true entity of flame.

It crackled and burnt grass under her feet, while more unfortunate plants too close simply wilted from the heat that pulsated from her body, distorting the rising air as it too became hot.

Finally, one of those arms lifted, and with but a click of her thumb and forefinger, the blood that had caked the man, had started to crawl away from him, and down onto the floor, and towards her.

Raithmoore

Date: 2010-01-12 05:39 EST
The dirt and blood stained man paid no mind the streams of red that flowed off his body and began toward the woman. He was entirely too concentrated on the singular task that constantly resonated within his one-track mind.

Find the citadel. Find Raithmoore. Find the Necropolis.

This was the message, these were the thoughts that constantly repeated in his head. He dripped over the large roots of an old tree, hands catching him and scraping along the ground. He stood again, not dusting himself off or checking the scrapes on his knees and palms, only continuing onward like a mindless zombie.

Images flashed, directions to the citadel, into it, to the secret entrances that wold have him mingling amongst his soon to be brothers and sisters, all lost int he wild thrall of their Lich King.

The information was in his blood.

This Dark Second

Date: 2010-01-12 06:04 EST
"His mind is not his own, it would seem," She spoke, her seductive voice concluding, "Then whose does it belong?" With the question beckoning a clawed finger to the blood that now collected at her feet, it slowly snaked up into the air like some vitae serpentine entity, and seeped into the four glowing hour glasses that shone a sickly, blood red.

With its capture, she swayed, and lifted a hand to her head. Clutching into the shoulder length of dark hair, as secrets and promises of power seeped into her mind; there a voice, a sublime and handsome voice whispered.

Find the citadel. Find Raithmoore. Find the Necropolis.

"Lich... King?" A store of knowledge - a rare opportunity to meet a spectre of time untouched. "Raithmoore. A city of the dead." Her body tensed, as her attention was placed back upon the shambling zombie of a man.

"Perhaps this is merciful, but I suppose I should put you out of your misery." With a lift of her hand towards the creature, it seems she was quite happy to stab him in the back. At least that way, he would not know what would hit him.

From the hour glass snaked the collection of blood - defying gravity and the laws of nature, to collect into a single liquid globule that spun and warped, just in front of her palm.

As promised, her attack would be swift. The bloodball shot forward, morphing along its way into a long, iron spike that drove itself into the back of the man's head.

Raithmoore

Date: 2010-01-14 11:08 EST
The shambling man was oblivious to the words being spoken, the knowledge he freely gave away, and the attack that swept up behind him. The spearing blood was dismissed just as much as he cold a minor breeze. And then it hit and tore through him like a rag doll.

Life fled his bones and with it went the desire to answer Raithmoore's call. The lich had no use for headless zombies and his charm died then and there, but the witch would still be able to hear it in the wind. It was a haunting tone speaking in a language that seemed to dark and powerful for mortal ears to hear. It carried in its wake, a sense of dread, the cold of death, the promise of power.

Raithmoore's tower was a beacon, radiating this spell constantly in search of new fodder, servants, and allies to call to his cause. All with the ear to, could hear it.